I have been very patient about this summer.
Long, hot days. Hard ground. Grass that crackled underfoot. Walk after walk returning to the house with perfectly clean paws. There has been very little evidence that I’ve been anywhere.
The humans have loved it. Breakfast outside. Long evenings. Endless remarks about what a lovely day it is.
I have been wearing the same fur coat throughout. My views were not sought.
But now autumn is edging towards Martins Farm. A cooler breeze. A fallen leaf. Clouds that might finally amount to something.
They’re looking forward to golden trees, cosy evenings and getting the AGA going properly. I’m watching a patch of ground by the gate.
There is also the return of Strictly Come Dancing. Every Saturday. And Sunday. For an eternity, or so Ali says. Sharon oohs and aahs while Ali develops an urgent interest in the fire. Another log. A small adjustment. A lengthy inspection of the poker. The sort of work that apparently cannot wait until the dancing has finished. Occasionally he stands back to assess it, carefully facing away from the television.
I recognise this behaviour. I also become very busy with something else when I’m expected to take an interest.
Still, if autumn delivers, I shall have proper work outside. That first soft patch deserves a careful inspection. One paw initially, then all four. Possibly a shoulder, if the findings justify it.
Proper mud. Between the toes. Up the legs. A little somewhere nobody can quite explain.
Apparently the Mud Daddy is ready in the boot room. They have made arrangements to remove mud we haven’t even had yet.
Until then, I remain on sentry duty. Watching the clouds. Checking the ground. Returning disappointingly clean.
I’ve waited all summer to hear, “Winston, you are absolutely not coming in like that.”
— Winston, the real custodian